I sometimes wonder at the magic my ancestors used,
And now as it’s flowing through my veins,
I no longer wonder why they would attribute,
Such qualities to the brew of honey.

It is not the warmth of the brew itself,
The heat within stirring blood,
Or the arousal that follows a step behind.
While such magic is potent in its own right,
The composer worships another mistress.

Mine is a magic tainted by love,
It lessens the weight of my poetry,
For how could I express what I feel?
Humbling, is what it is,
To know what you cannot express,
To be loved and to love,
Equally and unquestionably,
What kind of meaning has certainty?

A raving poet,
Madly drunk,
Or a mad drunk,
Raving and poetic?
Perhaps dusional,
Confusing one with the other.
But there is something of which this rambling madman is certain ~
One thing that he knows is absolute.